Research
by romanticidiot
Summary: SeverusHermione. One shot. Hermione can't seem to get the last page of her novel right, so she turns to the only person who can help her research.


Research 

**By**

**Secret Slashyness**

**DISCLAIMER:** The characters are in no way owned by me.

I am writing a novel. I've been writing it for a very long time. Nobody knows about it, not even Harry and Ron. Which is probably good thing, under the circumstances. Not only am I writing a novel, but I am writing a romance novel. And I'm just coming to the perfect ending, where my characters wind up together, and I am so hopelessly stuck that I can't think straight.

Their mouths entwined like threads of cotton … No. 

_Their bodies melded together like soft clay …_ Gah, no.

_Their tongues duelled each other like Voldemort and Harry…_ Dear God no!

The quill is now across the room, landing on top of the screwed up pieces of parchment I threw there earlier. I am sitting straddled on my chair, leaning against the back of the chair with my hands tangled in my hair and my elbows resting on the wooden desk in front of me. My back aches with this too-long maintained position, my head is pounding from frustration and my hands smell of ink.

I am tired, I am aching, I am stressed and I am damn well determined to finish this novel. At first it was fun, I had a story to tell, so I was telling it. Now it had become a personal challenge to get these characters onto the page and behaving as I wanted them to. I had used reams and reams of parchment getting this right, and I was almost finished. Now, this last piece of the jigsaw puzzle refused to fall into place. I want to scream.

So I do. I cast a silencing spell on my quarters, stand up, clench my fists and scream like a banshee. God dammit that felt good.

I feel a lot better after that, and sit down normally on the chair, leaning back, resting my feet on the desk and massaging my temples. Why exactly had I started writing the thing anyway? Something had definitely inspired me, I remembered that much. I seem to remember it came from a dream. If I could remember the dream, maybe I could remember why I was putting myself through this.

I close my eyes and think about it for a moment. Oh yes. That was it.

I make a sudden decision and stand up, ignoring the way my head spins with exhaustion and march out of my room, down countless hallways and into the bowels of Hogwarts. I've been a teacher here for three years and I still get a chill when I come down this far. Maybe it pertains back to when I was younger and this place inspired fear into my bones, because maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be able to impress my teacher and do well. I shake away this gloom and keep going.

I'm trying not think about what I'm doing here. I don't quite know why I've left the safety of my rooms to come traipsing around Hogwarts in the middle of the night. I'm thinking it's going to take a lot of hammering on his door to wake him up. I'm expecting that he's going to be very angry with me.

I am not expecting him to be reaching the door to his quarters seconds before I do. He registers my presence with surprise, but maintains his usual composure and disdain. He politely waits for me to reach him, standing with his back to the door.

I head towards him, all thought completely erased from my head. My world has focused now to one single thought. Research. I think I alarm him when I keep moving, even after an appropriate distance to stop has been reached. He doesn't have much time to be worried, though, because I keep stepping evenly towards him until I crash gently into him and in one smooth motion I press my lips to his, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck. I feel his arms go around my back and hold me to him as he opens his mouth to my advances.

Ah, so this is what I was trying to express. I was trying to talk about the sensation of soft lips against my own, and how they slide deliciously over my mouth. How his tongue sweeps my mouth with no more intention than to feel good, and how it sensually binds me to him without even trying. The slow, tantalizing exploration of my mouth, his hands on my hips and my back, pulling me closer, closer and closer still. The warmth of his neck and I run my hands through his hair, simply _feeling_ him. I can feel his heartbeat with his chest pressed up against mine, and I know my heart is matching his beat for beat. One of his hands slips up and buries itself in my hair, holding my head close to his. It's how amazing it feels to break rules, and how this feeling transcends any boundaries. It's how the world narrows to this one simple moment, this one man, this one feeling, this one us.

It's how I press against him, my head swimming with sensations, and my body feeling warmer and warmer as the seconds tick on. It's how my legs feel weak underneath me and he has to hold me harder to support me. It's how I can feel him breathing shallowly, even as he kisses me. It's how every nerve seems alive with feeling, and I feel more aware than I have ever felt before. It's how a muffled noise comes from deep inside his throat and I know that I have lost control over my own vocal chords, because all my feeling is directed into this kiss.

And it's how it slowly ends, with his lips lingering on mine for just long enough for me to want this moment to last longer. It's how the last sensation is of my top lip slipping slowly off his bottom lip, and how I step back from him, his arms loosening their hold and my hands slipping from his hair. It's how he coolly appraises me from within the mask of his eyes, and I laugh inside because no matter how much he tries to hide from me now, he never can again.

"Was that all you wanted, Professor Granger?" He asks me.

"Yes." I tell him. "Good night, Professor Snape."

And I turn on my heel and walk away, my footsteps echoing around me and my legs feeling like jelly. It's hard to breathe as I make my way back to my chambers. I open the door to my room and I want to throw myself down on my bed and relive the moment again and again until it's firmly embedded in my memory. But I spy the abandoned quill and parchment on my table and I remember why I left.

I sit down at the desk and pick up my quill with shaking hands. I have just finished writing the last page when a knock comes at my door.

Author's Note 

Please forgive any mistakes in tense. I hardly ever write in present tense and I'm not sure why I did this time. Hope you like it.

Liz.


End file.
